


with no colors on our skin

by bemusedlybespectacled (ardentintoxication)



Category: Jupiter Ascending (2015)
Genre: Bets & Wagers, Exhibitionism, F/M, JA Secret Santa, JA Secret Santa 2017, M/M, Pseudo-Incest, Space capitalism, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 07:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13118967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentintoxication/pseuds/bemusedlybespectacled
Summary: Balem and Titus make a wager. For the 2017 Jupiter Ascending Secret Santa.





	with no colors on our skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aeolians](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aeolians/gifts).



Balem’s birthday parties are always so very _dreary_. The whole thing more closely resembles a centennial shareholder’s meeting than a centennial celebration: all this talk of profits and interest and expenses, as if Balem ever talks of anything else.

Titus takes another sip of cheerdraught and mulls over his plans. He sees his sister chatting with one of the Egeria sisters, looking almost as bored as he is. Honestly, he wouldn’t even have bothered to show up if it wasn’t absolutely necessary. And it’s certainly approaching necessary. The Aegis might be reluctant to enforce the debtor’s laws against an Entitled, but it never hurts to be careful, particularly when his siblings are involved.

He sets his empty glass on a tray held by a cowering, gold-painted Splice and picks up a fresh one, then glides forward to join his brother.

“Another century come and gone,” he says quietly.

Balem doesn’t even turn to look at him. “Indeed,” he rasps.

“The years have brought you many successes, it seems.”

“Indeed.”

“All _possible_ successes, in fact. I offer you the highest of congratulations”

That, at least, gets Balem to turn his head. “To what do you refer?”

“Well,” Titus says, taking a slow slip of cheerdraught, “I have been going over the family accounts, and it seems you have not budgeted for a pleasure Splice in over a decade. I can only assume that you are no longer in need of this service because you have found a more permanent supply.”

Of course, he knows perfectly well that Balem isn’t seeing anyone. Famulus operates Titus’ spy network with precision, and carefully combs through even the vagaries to find useful information about his brother’s movements. If Balem had a paramour, even a secret one, he would know about it.

As he expected, Balem reddens, the pale skin of his cheeks flushing under the freckles. “How dare you.”

“How dare I what?”

“You know what.”

“Are you saying that I’m incorrect in my assumption?” Titus says, with just the faintest tone of incredulity.

Balem’s mouth tightens. It’s hilarious. “I am not… there is no one. I simply see no reason to budget for that which I do not need.”

“Everyone has _needs_ ,” Titus drawls.

“Perhaps _you_ do,” Balem says, “but some of us spend our income more productively, particularly if we do not need to resort to paying for our… entertainment.”

It’s a cheap shot, well below Balem’s usual standards. Excellent. That means Titus is succeeding.

“I’m so glad you feel that way,” Titus says. “Then I’m sure you’ll appreciate my gift.” He pulls a slim, gold-wrapped box out of one of his pockets and passes it to Balem.

Balem breaks the seal on the wrapping paper and opens the box. One of his eyebrows lifts in confusion. There is nothing in the box.

“You have a point, I’m sure,” Balem says at last.

“A wager, actually.”

“A _wager_.”

“Well, since you’re so sure of your skills,” Titus says, “it shouldn’t be a very difficult one. We both try to seduce the same person. I choose the person, but you get to try first–if you succeed, then I do not even get an attempt.”

“Go on.”

Titus schools his face to only show polite interest, instead of the gleeful delight he currently feels. “If you win, then you may have control over my branch of Abrasax Industries for one decade, during which time you may have seventy-five percent of the profits made.”

“And if you win?”

“Cancri.”

Balem doesn’t quite snort, but air does exit his lungs via his nose. “Cancri is hardly worth even that much of your meager profits.”

“Then you’ll have no objection to the terms.”

It’s a tempting offer, Titus knows. Balem has never minded that his holdings are the most prosperous, but that Titus has taken losses on his last three Harvests is galling to him, if only because of his latent House pride and the risk to his own reputation. He has no need of the money, but the opportunity to control Titus’ branch–to control _Titus_ –is the true draw.

Balem presses his lips together. “And how do I know that the person you choose isn’t working with you?”

“You don’t,” Titus says. “But where would the fun be if I didn’t give you _some_ chance?”

Balem seems to accept this reasoning, which is, for once, the truth. “Whom have you chosen?”

Titus inclines his head towards a woman standing near the buffet table. Hortensia Domitilla is a lesser Secondary of a lesser House, unlikely to inherit much of anything. Her thick brown hair falls neatly to her waist, held back neatly by a diadem, and her dress–perhaps fifty years out of fashion–is of a loose drape, clinging to her curves as she moves. He’s met her once or twice, always at this sort of function where _everyone_ must be invited, no matter what their pedigree, but never to any particular degree of familiarity. And neither, he knows, has Balem. Or anyone else of their rank, for that matter.

It should be easy. Attention from anyone, let alone the First Primary of the House of Abrasax, should be enough to interest her.

“You insult me,” Balem hisses.

“I’m giving you a head start,” Titus replies. “Remember, if you succeed, then I get nothing.”

Balem actually looks nervous. Titus resists the urge to giggle. “Oh, and one more thing,” he adds. “You get half an hour. It wouldn’t be fair if you spent the whole night trying and didn’t give _me_ any time to myself, would it?”

Balem walks away with a sweep of his glittering robes, and Titus can already tell which of them is going to succeed. Balem is trying to _win_ , not to woo, and so his whole manner is just wrong. His body is held too tightly; he looms over the poor girl with an air that seems both imperious and desperate. He can’t see Balem’s face from this angle, but he can see Hortensia’s. He watches her face move from excitement to polite interest to the awkward expression of someone looking for a convenient exit. Balem is undoubtedly trying that smile on her, the one he believes is reassuring and friendly; the one that never works and has never worked in the millennia that Titus has been alive.

Titus finishes his glass of cheerdraught in precisely half an hour, taking slow sips and wandering about the room. He waits for five minutes after Balem walks away with an air of defeat before moving in with two full glasses.

He could tell at a glance that what Hortensia Domitilla desperately wants is to be noticed. Balem was sloppy, running roughshod over her–Titus spends a good fifteen minutes asking her about herself, admiring her dress, drawing her into conversation about the party and its revelers. (He finds out she hates the Luxors, or at least one of the Luxor heirs. An unexpected bonus. He will have to do something with that information later.) After twenty minutes, he starts touching her–the slow trail of his hand up her arm as he takes her empty glass, his fingers on her waist as he draws her in to whisper something in her ear.

He supposes that, as Balem feared, he could have asked her beforehand to be his confederate in this scheme, to ensure that she would rebuff Balem and come with him. It certainly would have increased his odds, and Titus does love to cheat where he can. But he didn’t, precisely so that, after twenty-seven minutes of conversation, he can grin over her shoulder at Balem as he takes her by the hand and leads her to a guest room away from the crowd.

Titus closes the door behind them, but he knows that there is no _real_ privacy, not here. Balem is as paranoid about security as he is obsessed with profit. This is a show for him, really, as much as it is celebrating Titus’ victory. He makes sure to go slowly as he takes off her horribly ugly gown, to just as slowly take off his own clothes, to tease her until she’s begging for him to be inside her, her limbs splayed out upon the bed.

He enjoys himself. He always does. But really, there’s a _reason_ he prefers Splices. Splices, for all their lack of standing, are at least distinct from each other. Hortensia is like all Entitled women–manipulated for optimal physical condition, and so precisely like every other Entitled. He finds himself looking for flaws and finds none, not even a single blemish on her perfectly smooth skin. His mind wanders to Balem; Balem and the freckles that he can never seem to get rid of, no matter how much he uses Regenex, an imperfection that Titus knows bothers him and yet never bothers to waste the money to have them removed. Is he watching just now? Is he flushing bright red beneath the freckles? Is he angry, or excited? Humiliated? Is he taking his own cock in his hand, under his clothes, bent over the security monitor, watching him–

Titus comes.

He maintains the ruse for long enough to get her off as well; he even kisses her hands and helps her with her gown. There’s no reason to not be mannerly, especially since she has been so helpful in getting him what he wanted. Cancri might not be the most populous planet, certainly not a fantastic profit-generator like some of Balem’s other holdings, but it has potential, and is worth at least enough to pay off his debts. More, if he lets Famulus have her way, and he will, because he sees no point in letting a good thing go to waste.

He waits until after Hortensia leaves to put his own clothes on and reenter the ballroom. She looks at him hopefully, but he gives her a bland smile–she has served her purpose. He looks for Balem. He is standing at the top of the stairs–just beyond, Titus thinks, the door leading to his security room.

He can see faint redness pooling at Balem’s cheekbones. The smile he gives Balem is only for him–deliciously triumphant. The blush deepens.

**Author's Note:**

> Hooray, I got it in on time! It's still the 23rd here! Apologies for any weirdness or typos: I wrote about 60% of this while in recovery from my septoplasty.
> 
> Title is from a Florence + the Machine song because it's me.
> 
> Balem's creepy smile that never fucking works:
> 
>  


End file.
